Nick Rogers: Ready for long Sex and the City’

Wednesday

May 28, 2008 at 12:01 AMMay 28, 2008 at 10:58 PM

Guys, you may need to stretch if you go to see "Sex and the City," which clocks in at 145 minutes long.

Nick Rogers

You won’t see my name on a “Sex and the City” movie review. Rest easy, Carrie Nation. I’m not sitting here simultaneously gnashing steak and cigars, swilling single-malt and angrily spitting in a cloud of man-smoke. Seeing it early didn’t jive with this week’s schedule.

My wife owns a DVD set of the complete TV series — in a pink felt case, no less. That should clue you in that I’ll eventually be accompanying her to the film. (Our entertainment center has achieved gender harmony, though. A sleek black Pink Floyd “Shine On” box set counters any foo-foo quotient.)

I guess I’m not in columnist company with John Kass of the Chicago Tribune, who offered a “Get Out of Watching the ‘Sex and the City’ Movie Card” in a piece published May 14. The card’s anti-movie oaths were embedded in the sweat of Rocky Balboa, the blood of William Wallace and the pout of Brad Pitt. But Kass’ musings seemed a little too openly hostile to be only humorous.

No, my problem with the “Sex and the City” movie isn’t what you think. (More on that in a bit.) I have, after all, given favorable reviews to 23 openly definable chick flicks this decade, and not for the sake of relationship points. Yes, even “The Wedding Date,” “Bounce” and “Jersey Girl.” Yet I will draw the line at films with the word “sister” in the title. Ya-yas and pants flashed the “no boys allowed” sign.

I enjoyed “Sex and the City” as a series, at its poignant best when it flashed as much heart as naughty bits. And, in fact, if guys like Kass and the compadres in his column gave it a chance, they’d have found a hard-living hero worthy of a man crush in Chris Noth’s portrayal of Mr. Big. My lone complaint: The law of averages dictates I should no longer walk in at the moment of Trey’s self-love fest.

It’s safe to call “Sex and the City” the Indiana Jones of chick flicks. But after 19 years, Indy barely got two hours. This movie is 145 minutes long. Do Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha land in Narnia after fumbling for Manolos in a wardrobe, ridding the land of bland Kathy Ireland fashion?

A friend counters that there are four lead characters requiring full arcs. To that, I say a half-hour each. Two hours. Boom. Done. Yes, the running time matches up with how girlfriends often view the show — in bulk, several episodes at once. But the projector doesn’t stop for fresh pitchers of Cosmos, and immobility can feel particularly strenuous when trapped in a long, drawn-out movie.

So should you see me in the theater squirming during “Sex and the City,” it’s not the pain of my man card burning away into nothingness. That doesn’t worry me. It’s just that I’ll need to stretch.

Nick Rogers can be reached at nick.rogers@sj-r.com. Read his blog at blogs.sj-r.com/unpaintedhuffhines.